


Stereo

by error_era (orphan_account)



Series: 3AM Products of Procrastination [2]
Category: Wanted (2008), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Gen, M/M, POV First Person, Xavier twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 12:47:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/error_era
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The life and times of Charles and Wesley Xavier, condensed and told through the static of a stereo.</p><p>Turn the dial and we'll begin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stereo

**Author's Note:**

> In a nutshell, a fusion of the XMFC and Wanted universes, with Charles and Wesley as twins. Attempted to keep it as canon as possible; well, as canon as an AU like this can get, anyway, haha.

You’re on a plane. You’re wondering what brought you here, why you’re leaving, running. There is a mother sitting in the aisle seat who is settling her sons into their blanket, while the boys themselves are excitedly discussing all of the things they’re going to do when they land, ignoring their mothers’ efforts. You don’t mean to stare, but you do. Your chest aches for what (who) you’re moving further and further away from, yet at the same time you can’t help the slight quirk of your lips as the boys settle in against each other as they drift off to sleep. 

Now stop. Fast forward. 

You stare at your brother with blank eyes. He’s livid, far more than you’ve ever seen him in all of your years together. The chair you’re sitting in is uncomfortable with the way that the rattan digs into your back, and you want to laugh at the irony of that sentence, but you can’t find it in yourself to do so. You can’t find it in yourself to do anything, to be quite honest. You tell him so, and for a brief moment you can’t tell if his gaze softens or hardens, but it doesn’t matter because in the next moment, his arms (bigger, stronger now) are around you, holding you tight as he trembles and swears that _I’ll kill him, Charlie, I’ll kill him for what he did to you_. You tug on his jacket and silently reassure him that you have no doubt that he could. But he won’t. 

Too far. Rewind. 

You’re on the road. Your knee is scraped and bleeding, but you’re too busy clutching onto your twin to notice. A car is stopped just centimeters away from you both, and the driver is trying to help you, make sure you’re alright. You’ve always been told that ignoring people isn’t polite, but you can’t say anything right now, not even to the boy in your arms. He breaks out of your lock and looks you in the eye and tells you that he’s alright, you’re alright, but you’re not quite sure if you should believe him. That car, that _driver_ , was going to take him away from you forever, and you don’t know what you just did, but you prevented it from happening. He’s out of your arms, but you continue to clutch at his sweater, and he gently whispers into your mind: _you are far more special than I already thought you were, my dear brother._

__

Wrong direction. Come back. Press forward. 

You’re sitting in one of the old bedrooms. It’s barren, just like most of the others, but this one was special. You idly finger the bedsheets as you wander around the room, cataloguing the minds you feel around the mansion. Some are asleep, some are getting ready to, and some are too scared to try. You walk around the queen-sized bed to continue looking around, only for your foot to hit something solid underneath it. Curiosity gets the better of you, and you get down to your knees to inspect it. You find a small, beautiful, albeit dusty wooden box and it strikes you as familiar, yet you can’t, for the life of you, remember what you or the owner of this room kept in it, or why it was hidden and left behind. You carefully open the lid, and a miniature figure of a horse pops up with it, startling you for a brief moment before you realize that it’s a music box. A broken one, it seems. There’s a note at the very bottom of the box, and you manage to reach into it far enough to obtain it. It’s addressed to you, or rather, to ‘Charlie’, and you feel your eyes burning when you realize that there’s only one person on earth that calls you that. The note reads “ _I’m sorry I could never fix this for you. You know how terrible I am with putting things back together._ _Love, W.”_ and it pains you to know that he’s not talking about the box. 

Closer. Forward. A little more. 

You’re in an apartment. You don’t say it’s _yours_ , because it’s not; not really. You stare at your bag, packed with a few shirts and a couple of other essentials, and maybe a few photos and keepsakes. A smile threatens to spread across your lips, and for a moment you consider allowing it, because you’re finally going home. It’s over. But your phone rings, and your heart stops for a moment at the thought that someone has found you, that they know where you’re going, who’s waiting for you there. You step closer to the device and find an unknown number flashing on the screen. You let it go to voicemail, not moving until a shaken woman’s voice sounds through. _Whoever you are_ , she quivers, _we need you here._ Charles _needs you here._

Stop. Rewind. Almost there. Slowly, now. 

You’re on a beach. The warm breeze is stifling, and the trees are swaying ominously in their wake. Your body is freckled with sand and you’re breathing heavily, feeling a pain you’re not quite sure is coming from your wound or what you’re about to say. There are strong hands holding you, whispering words of love, of care, promising a life together fighting for what he thinks _our kind_ truly deserves. Your mind tries to wrap around something you can compromise over, anything you can use to convince yourself that you agree with his ways and that you can go with him. Spend the rest of your life fighting by his side. You’re so tired of being apart from the people you love, of them thinking that being apart is better because you’re not letting them do what they want, however unintentionally. And here he is, looking at you pleadingly, practically begging you to go with him. You look into his eyes and you find yourself wanting it so badly that your chest aches. But you take a deep, shuddering breath, and pause. 

You tell him no. 


End file.
